The days blurred together, stitched with hollow routines. Mira would rise, prepare breakfast, feign a smile, and watch Jalen eat with an appetite that once would have filled her with relief. But now, each bite he took was a reminder of what she had lost to give it to him.
The air between them was shifting. Jalen, once wrapped in the fog of his depression, had begun to notice things again—small details, changes in her tone, the way her hands trembled when she thought no one was looking.
And Mira felt the thread fraying.
One morning, Jalen set his fork down and studied her. "Mira," he said slowly, "when was the last time you laughed?"
The question was so simple, but it gutted her.
She forced a shrug. "I laugh all the time."
But the truth was written in the silence that followed.
Jalen leaned forward, his brow furrowed. "No, you don't. I can't remember the last time I heard it. And it's not just that—you look… different. Empty. Like you're carrying something heavy."
Mira's chest constricted. He was too close to the truth.
She turned away, busying herself with the dishes. "You're imagining things."
But his voice sharpened. "No, I'm not. You're hiding something from me."
That evening, when she slipped into bed, Mira stared at the ceiling, wide-eyed. Jalen's suspicion gnawed at her.
He deserved to know. He had a right to understand the cost of his newfound joy. But if she told him, would he crumble under the weight of her sacrifices? Would he spiral back into the abyss she had dragged him from?
The pale-eyed woman's voice haunted her: Wouldn't it be easier if you no longer cared?
Mira curled tighter into herself, as though she could protect her love for him by holding it close.
The following day, the consequences of her hollowing became undeniable.
At the market, Mira reached for a loaf of bread and froze. The baker greeted her with a warm smile, but her mind was blank. She couldn't remember if she knew him—couldn't recall a single exchange they'd had, though she must have bought from him countless times.
Her heart pounded. Another memory, another thread of connection, erased.
She stumbled home with the bread clutched too tightly in her hands, tears stinging her eyes.
When Jalen opened the door, his face lit up with joy, and guilt slammed into her like a blade.
She was unraveling. And he was glowing brighter every day.
That night, as they sat together in the dim light, Jalen broke the silence.
"Mira… I think something's wrong with me."
Her breath caught. "What do you mean?"
"I feel… happy," he said, as though the word itself were fragile. "But it doesn't make sense. It doesn't feel earned. It feels like—like someone else is paying for it."
Mira's heart stopped.
Jalen turned to her, his eyes searching. "Tell me I'm wrong. Tell me this isn't… unnatural."
Her lips parted, but no sound came out.
Because he wasn't wrong.
And the weight of his gaze pressed against her like chains, demanding the truth she wasn't ready to give.
That night, Mira stood by the window long after Jalen had fallen asleep.
The city glowed with its cold, merciless beauty, vials of bottled emotions passing from hand to hand in alleys and stalls. She thought of the Exchange, its sterile walls and the pale-eyed woman's chilling smile.
Wouldn't it be easier if you no longer cared?
Mira's hands clenched into fists.
No. She couldn't surrender her love for him. It was all she had left. But she also couldn't let him uncover the truth—not yet. Not while the knowledge might shatter him.
For now, she would carry the burden alone.
Even as the thread frayed thinner and thinner.